


everyone, everyone knows it's me

by everythingispoetry



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Depression, Developing Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Nonverbal Communication, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-20 00:59:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2409308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingispoetry/pseuds/everythingispoetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it's like you're over the surface, feeling the wind and the scent of the sea, with the sunshine smothering your skin. Sometimes you're underwater, with nothing but thick heavy darkness surrounding you and making it impossible to breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	everyone, everyone knows it's me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quiet_reader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_reader/gifts).



> This story might be triggering as it has some graphic descriptions of injuries. Please take that into consideration.
> 
> Inspired by [this prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/6565.html?thread=11239589#t11239589) that I have been meaning to fill since 2012.

**everyone, everyone knows it’s me**

 

He wakes up. It’s only five but five is normal these days. He gets up; muscles feel stiff and limbs heavy; nothing new.

‘JARVIS.’

Mutter.

‘It’s five oh two, sixty degrees, cloudy with twenty percent chance for precipitation…’

Soothing voice. He gets lost in it easily, then in the noise of water in the shower, long long long.

He puts on clothes: grey, grey, white, black. Easy.

 _Don’t look in the mirror_.

He drinks a cup of coffee – his hands are shaky so too much milk, doesn’t matter – and looks at the fridge. He looks away and leaves the room.

The elevator is shiny and immaculate.

 _Don’t look in the mirror_.

It’s quiet. He designed it to be quiet. He wishes it was loud. Loud is mind-numbing.

_Even more?_

‘Shut up.’

He can: no one else uses this elevator.

He steps out, smiles at the receptionist and everyone else, and gets in the car. He takes out his tablet, this way he doesn’t have to talk. He stares at the news feed but he’s not really looking at it.

Seven sharp.

Seven oh one.

Seven oh two.

The numbers changing so slowly make him almost angry, as if they were fooling with him.

‘Bye, Happy.’

‘See you later, Boss.’

Seven forty-seven. He looks at the watch on his wrist: perfectly synchronized. The clock in the lobby: which is a minute late. A minute doesn’t matter.

‘Good morning, Mister –’

_Don’t look in the mirror._

He nods and walks past. The office is on twentieth floor, so he takes another private elevator. No one will be around until nine, no one will bother him until nine.

There is a stack of overdue paperwork to read through and sign. He roughly estimates it for thirty documents but it could be wrong. It probably is wrong. Doesn’t matter.

He sits in the chair, feet on the floor, elbows resting on the desk, and skims through file number one, finishing it with a flourishing signature. By the third he crosses his ankles. By seventh props his head on his hand. He runs a hand through his hair: he has to _do_ something. It doesn’t help.

He looks away from the file for just a moment.

By twelfth he pulls his legs up, hugs them to his chest, and lets his signature gets more sloppy. His hand feels heavier and heavier.

He spends the last forty-six minutes staring out of the window. Breathing.

There is a sudden phone call. He nods, JARVIS lets the voice flow.

‘Mister Downwood will be with you in five minutes.’

He puts the folders on the cabinet, in two piles. Neat piles. He sits by the desk, straightens his jacket, straightens his back.

Downwood comes in. Behind him a secretary with a tray of coffee and snacks.

Downwood’s voice is deep and overwhelming.

 _Good_.

_Shut up._

‘Of course.’

‘But…’

‘I will let you know.’

‘I see.’

‘We would like to…’

‘Thank you.’

‘Pleasure.’

Downwood leaves his mug by the tray before he leaves.

He stares at his: it’s almost full and cold now. Too much milk. He drinks it anyway.

‘J?’

‘Archived in the usual place.’

‘Mhm.’

Murmur.

He stares out of the window for several minutes. The businessmen from surrounding buildings are all dressed in black grey and white, like him.

‘Mister Cook.’

‘Miss Lin.’

Misses, Doctor, Mister, Doctor, whoever, boring, _what are they talking about, focus focus focus_.

 _Shut up_.

‘Thank you.’

Miss Collins leaves, her shoes clicking. Like Pepper’s. Pepper will be back in a week.

After Miss Collins he goes to bathroom, relieves himself, and refreshes his face. Eyes closed. _Don’t look in the mirror_.

‘I’m leaving.’

‘There is one more meeting –’

‘Sorry. Personal reasons.’

‘I will reschedule.’

He nods, smiles, leaves. Stares out of the window during the drive. Boring.

He’s tired.

Smile at the receptionist, go up elevator. The penthouse is empty. His steps echo loudly, loudly. He takes his shoes off: better. He takes off his suit, his shirt, his socks. Just underwear left. He gets his favorite blanket out of a drawer. The heavy weight all around is comforting. Physical responses: simple.

He stares out of the window.

 _Shut up, shut up, shut up_ , a chant.

His thought are messy. Going in the wrong direction. Better not. _Shut up_. He hums loudly, a bad song.

He stares out of the window. Closes his eyes. Opens them. Stares.

Sunset.

JAVIS made sure it’s warm. The blanket keeps him safe.

City lights, too many. All blurry in front of his tired eyes.

_Haven’t done anything –_

Still tired.

 _Shut up_.

So tired.

Nothing in the world worth trying to keep eyes open.

He stares: night.

 

 

He wakes up. The clock on the wall shows it’s almost eleven and the room is filled with sun. His neck hurts a little from sleeping on the sofa even though he should be used to it.

A news page unrolls next to the clock, covering the white surface of the wall. Schedule cleared for today.

‘Thanks, J.’

‘For you sir, always. May I suggest you contact –’

He laughs. It hurts his chest and makes his neck even more sore, laughter bubbling in lungs and throat. As if he were drowning. He’s familiar with the feeling.

They both feel like being alive, and in pain. Which means alive.

The sun is scary. The thought of the world is scary, he realizes. So many people, so much noise, everyone wanting something. Everyone staring. Exhausting.

‘Shut up.’

_You’re doing it again. Idiot._

‘Shut up!’

He almost shouts. The anger means adrenaline and he feels a bit more awake momentarily.

_You’re doing it again, you’re not supposed to, you promised yourself you wouldn’t, you’re doing it again. The sun is overwhelming: go on, let it scare you. You don’t need it. They don’t need you._

_Let the sun scare you._

‘Shut up, shut up, shut up!’

He shouts this time, wrapping his head with his arms and drawing it to his knees. Rock slightly. Repeated physical movements are soothing, scientifically proven.

‘Shut up.’

Go from shout to a whispered begging: check.

‘Please.’

It’s easy: just getting up and stretching limbs. Clothes and food, then take a few steps out. Do things, simple things, work, have pleasure. Work, he should love it. He can’t think about it.

It’s easy: just getting up. Standing up. Throwing legs down and putting feet on the floor, stretching back, changing balance. Feeling the cold surface of the tiles.

It’s easy: people do it all the time. Getting up.

He keeps on rocking, eyes closed tightly.

 

 

He wakes up. Sunny day again, and a warm one. The temperature number is perfectly precise.

Shower. Beige, light grey, navy blue. Summer cut. Coffee. He notices it’s too much milk but doesn’t acknowledge it anymore. Getting it right it too complicated.

Elevator – _don’t look –_ car, traffic, S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.

Noise, constant noise. Humming. Voices. It’s exhausting.

‘Nice décor. Getting ready for 4th of July with all those reds, whites, and blues? Are you planning Cap’s birthday party?’

It’s simple but his own voice is so tiring.

‘An anniversary of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s funding.’

Maria’s voice is cold, almost annoyed. Good, good. When people are annoyed they think and behave in a certain way and it’s easy to shift their focus. Make them look away. All those eyes and attention make him feel sick. Feel like slamming the door and leaving.

Engineering meeting today.

Act responsible.

And grin – fuck, grin now. Almost too late. Don’t forget to grin.

‘How are you stocked up on booze?’

Maria gives him a disbelieving look. Good: grin. She look away, annoyed. Maybe angry.

They don’t speak for the rest of the trip upstairs. Dragging him limbs around takes all of his attention. He could be home. He could be flying somewhere. He could be everywhere he wanted.

Too many choices. Too much _everything_. Headache building up.

Bullshit the way through the meeting, scrambling just enough attention to hear people and make sense when he speaks. It’s all practiced. Practiced sound natural.

 _Don’t look in the mirror_.

He goes home. Works some more. JARVIS helps a lot, he can’t focus enough. His body feels weak as he hasn’t eaten properly in days. It’s easy to forget. Most of the time he’s too shaky, overwhelmingly so inside out, to think about eating.

He works some more and then orders food. JARVIS knows all the comfort foods.

He is just mildly embarrassed – okay, he is very embarrassed by that. JARVIS understands things like a human being. But food is a scientific method of comfort so it’s excused.

It’s also a distraction.

It’s also a messed up way of dealing with things but it works and he’s so exhausted.

He eats until he’s feeling uncomfortable, still not making up for all the food he hasn’t eaten. At least the piercing emptiness is gone. He curls up on a sofa. JARVIS plays _Lord of the Rings_ : it’s engrossing enough for Tony to keep his eyes open and loud enough to tune out his own thoughts.

 

 

He wakes up, looks outside, and tries to fall asleep again. He’s slept over twelve hours a day for the last few days so sleeping even more proves impossible.

Sleeping is the ultimate answer: it’s oblivion.

_There’s one more thing that is perfect oblivion –_

‘Shut the fuck up.’

It’s not even angry. He can’t be angry because that statement is very true, he just doesn’t want to hear it because it is very true, and teasing.

There is Pepper, Rhodey, Iron Man, the rest of Avengers, Stark Industries charity gala coming up, JARVIS and the bots, even a nice dinner with Senator Irwin. All worth waiting for, all waiting for him. He knows it. He knows it so so so well.

He wants it to matter.

It doesn’t.

He _wants_ it to matter.

His hands are shaking, headache pounding inside his skull, maybe from sleeping too much or maybe for no reason. He’s hungry and feels like throwing up equally much.

His mind is static. Buzz of all the things he’s ever known without any specific focus – maybe his hands are shaking in tune with that. It hurts, the headache, the restlessness.

He gets up, stands in front of the rows of clothes, and stares. Ends up wandering around in old jeans and an oversized, washed into thinness t-shirt. Somehow it feels comforting, wrapped around his body lightly. If his life depended on it, he wouldn’t be able to choose a proper outfit. Maybe he’d fall down to the floor and just stare, or tear up, _because_.

‘One of those fucking days?’

‘Pull yourself together.’

Half an hour later he is still hungry but all the food looks disgusting. Coffee too.

His hands are shaking, coated in sunshine.

He is supposed to finish a prototype of an airplane navigation system semi-A.I. for tomorrow. Well, the deadline is tomorrow. It’s already been done weeks ago. He wanted to look at it again but it just seems so tedious.

He makes himself anyway. The numbers blur and jump around and he keeps tapping his hands on the desk, tapping his floor on the floor, distracting himself. He throws a paper weight all across the room, just like that, enjoying the heavy feeling in his hand and he sharp strange feeling it gives to his chest around the reactor. He looks back at the screen.

It will be good: he knows it’s all good. Tedious.

Even if it weren’t, it’s not like everything depends on him. There are other people who could do it the same well, and everyone will say it’s too expensive and too unreliable anyway.

 _Look at the screen_.

He can almost see his reflection, his too-dark eyes.

 _Look_.

He keeps mistyping words, his fingers all over the keyboard. JARVIS corrects it all instantly, of course, but it only makes him angrier. With himself.

Anger is exhausting.

He stares at the screen, then abruptly stands up, almost knocking the chair, and balls his hands so hard it hurts, and just stands there, breathing. Calming down his breaths.

‘JARVIS, I’ll go and talk with dept 3, tell them to be ready.’

Refresh your face. Put on a jacket – whichever. Put on a scarf – whichever. So that it hides the t-shirt. Grin.

He acts half-annoyed, half-impressed, playing boldly and right into his role, and then he leaves the room, he takes the elevator downstairs ( _don’t look in the mirror_ ), gets food from a cart in front of the tower, goes to a movie – a terrible action movie – and watches a re-run of some comedy he’s never seen for hours.

Make an art out of distraction.

His hands are still shaking when he tries to zip down his trousers, to take off his watch.

There is no distraction from the emptiness.

He mercifully falls asleep.

 

 

He wakes up. He slept for four hours. He falls asleep again. Wakes up a few times in the meantime but it’s not worth it, moving.

He gets up at two oh six p.m. so he can be in Avengers training at three.

The training is a blur and he pushes it to last as long as possible, as long as possible to keep himself occupied enough.

‘We’ve done more than enough now, Stark. I like your newly found spirit of teamwork but it’s time to wrap it up, have some food and rest. We can do this again soon, if everyone wants.’

He laughs shortly. Disbelieving amusement.

‘Sure.’

Others nod, too.

Someone stares at him a tad too much when he leaves.

When he gets out of the suit, his hands are shaking. The room seems to big, too spacious, almost scarily so. New York is staring at him through the gigantic windows.

‘Opaque, J. Ninety percent.’

The windows turn black instantly, blocking out all the light, leaving Tony in black haze.

He needs food – it tastes like nothing. He still eats, then considers a drink, but there is no point, and it’s such an easy way down.

Distraction, he needs distraction. Something he can focus on: this is the hard part. Something overwhelming and engaging enough to actually interest him right now. Everything is so boring, so pointless. He’s tired.

He watches a movie while working on a silly software upgrade for S.I. systems, playing with a squeezy ball whenever he’s not typing.

 _Occupy your hands,_ and laughter. _Better occupy your hands._

‘Shut up.’

He could say that all the time, commanding his brain and never being listened to.

He checks the news in the meantime, writes a few work-related emails, glances at another screen showing a sitcom on mute. Tapping his feet on the floor. The movie is silly and the news pointless, and he wishes he never saw anything like the sitcom – embarrassing – and it’s all shallow. Barely scratching the surface.

And he can’t sleep.

He has been sleeping too much, more than his body needs, and now he can’t fall asleep.

JARVIS plays another movie and he tinkers with the suit which is still in the middle of the room. He sits on the floor and hunches over the metal body. Moves his hands. Breathes in out in out in.

There is so many stimuli but he doesn’t really register them.

The night drags on: midnight. One. Two. At three he throws the tools across the room with as much strength as he can muster and walks over to the bathroom, ignoring the glass he just broke, and whatever else there was. Water in the shower is so hot it’s making his skin red, and it almost hurts. Good. JARVIS turns the temperature down soon enough, _health hazard_ or whatever.

He stands there for half an hour.

He gets out, gets into the bed naked and still half-wet, and stares. Breathes. Tries to ignore his body screaming for _something_ , something that would feel. Physically. Not only physically.

Sleep. He’s begging for sleep, for oblivion. For not dealing with himself for a few hours, not dealing with _this._

 

 

He wakes up – he pretends he wakes up, opening his eyes and throwing the duvet at the other side of the bed. Stretching his limbs. Standing up.

He’s so tired. Tired with too much sleep, tired with no sleep, tired all the time.

He wishes it was a big day today, for some reason, but it isn’t. No meetings. Nothing of importance. Is anything of importance, really? Is anything? He wishes there was a straight and easy answer. He needs one. He needs – his thoughts are too fast but his mind is blank.

It shouldn’t be possible. It hurts. Nothing makes sense.

Or maybe everything does: he knows exactly what’s going on. What to do.

He doesn’t want to.

He goes down to the workshop, wearing just boxers, and tries to think. Sits in one of the cars and tries to smile, staring at the news. Scarily easy. He can’t fool himself.

His mind is all blurry.

‘Shut up.’

He says it even though there is no voice.

‘Please.’

 _Please please please_ , he chants silently. He just needs a break. Fucking five minutes of feeling human, of feeling in control, of feeling real, of _feeling_.

It’s stupid. He knows the answer. The thing is – all he ever does is avoid the answer. It’s a messes up answer. It should not work but it does, and there is a scientific explanation which only makes it worse.

But he doesn’t have the energy to avoid it anymore, he realizes.

Maybe it’s an excuse. Maybe he could still avoid it (but he’s so tired.)

He gets up, walks over to the kitchen area, takes out first aid kit. All very methodical, calm, practiced movements: he’s responsible. Grown-up and responsible.

He takes the scalpel and cuts his skin. It’s just a tingle. Nothing but a tingle, the most comforting feeling in the universe (it’s shallow, shallow enough to heal in less than a week and not scar, it doesn’t matter at all.)

He can do it. The red is there, tangible. Real. Everything else is forgotten: it’s just him and his little place in the world, and it’s real, and he know it.

He draws his hand to his arm again and again and again, never going deeper. It’s shallow and controlled. _Controlled_. Beautiful in an indescribable way. It’s also just chemicals in his brain fooling him, but most of all, it’s real. Cause and effect. _For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction_ , not accurate at all but it’s a thing, words emerging from the fog.

He makes a few more lines, a few more scratches, before putting the scalpel away.

He smiles.

It’s warm, the smile, and it’s warm in the room.

Tony puts the scalpel in its place, leaves some antiseptic wipes and bandages out, and puts the first aid kit away, feeling tiny droplets of blood tickling his skin. He’s still trembling a bit, all of his body shaky with excitement and anticipation, but it’s okay. It will pass soon enough, Tony knows. It’s a normal thing.

He turns around from the cupboard, closing it softly with almost no sound, and the morning sunshine almost blinds him. He smirks a bit and walks towards it, slowly, savoring how refreshing the coolness of the tiles is, and how subtle the change between shadow floor and sun-covered part is. The warmth seems to spread all throughout his body from his feet; the pale yellow sunrays smothering his skin only help.

Tony makes his way to an armchair nearby the windows and sits down, now all bathed in sun; JARVIS switches on the polarizing filter of the glass so that it’s possible to look outside without squinting.

The room is pleasantly silent and feels cozy, maybe because it’s so bright and summery, or maybe because of all the soft-edged furniture and carpets and little pieces of artwork hanging all around, but it’s quite stunning: it feels like home.

(All of sudden.)

Tony arm stings and it makes a satisfied shiver run down his spine: this is how it should be.

The silence is so unobtrusive. He can hear his own slow breaths, and his mechanically-supported heartbeat, like miracles. Not scary at all, just familiar. Reassuring. All the screens are switched off and invisible right now. Tony smiles: it looks so much better without the electronic halo all around. He does love his technology but once in a while, a calm moment is what he needs.

Tony observes curiously – even if it’s a bit of a morbid curiosity – how a crust of dried blood slowly stops it from staining his arm even more, underneath the soft itch he can ignore so easily. It’s a very well-known experience, from the beginning until the end. The timing, the colours, the sharpness of the cuts, the soft pink inflammation.

Tony smiles. He lets himself bask in the sun for a little while, observing how the shadows of skyscrapers move all above the city, and when his legs around going numb from sitting in a rather uncomfortable positon, he decides it’s time to put on some clothes and go on.

Move on with everything.

It takes a couple of minutes for the pin and needles sensation to go away and then Tony makes his way to the bathroom, all necessary supplies in hand. He washes the blood off his arm, inspecting the crossing line of the cuts closely: they will be gone soon, which is good. Hiding them for too long is bothersome, talking about them would be even more bothersome and slightly difficult. He doesn’t really need to: it’s not like it happens often.

_Good job, feeling great now, ah? Easy, right?_

_I shouldn’t have, no matter how good it feels,_ Tony thinks. It’s too late to be disgusted or reproachful, it’s already done, and honestly he’s passed that stage a good few years ago. Several years ago.

_Why stop?_

He ignores the though as the cleans the area with antiseptic wipes, just to be sure, and wraps it skillfully with bandage. It feels tight and embracing around his arm, not restrictive, just nice. Of course this shouldn’t feel nice – it’s a battle wound, Tony likes to say – but it does and he lets it. At least it feels like something. And it’s a reminder, whenever he can feel a tiniest twinge of dull pain. Binding reminder, in the best of ways.

‘Too easy,’ Tony mutters to himself, trying to reason with that strange part of his mind. ‘JARVIS,’ he adds from the walk-in closet, ‘weather today?’

‘Seventy-seven degrees Fahrenheit, full sun all day long, moderate wind from the ocean.’

It’s not just numbers and names and data that JARVIS would normally give, there are less numbers, less precision; Tony is thankful for this approach. Life-like approach, making it easier for him to pretend this all is life.

He puts on a soft grey shirt, long sleeved, and a pain of linen slacks. Perfect for the weather: seventy-seven degrees in the city feels like much more, with the humid ocean mist hovering over the streets, dispersing the sunlight. And Tony is going to be outside: he puts on a straw hat and a pair of sunglasses and decides to walk to his S.I. office two miles away, to breathe in the air and immerse himself in the dense crowd and enjoy it when he can.

 

 

There is something magical to the feeling of fabric against his inflamed skin, Tony has realized ages ago. It’s irrational how such a small thing can pull his out of the half-catatonic state, something impossibly frustrating, but he’s grateful for it nonetheless: there’s nothing else. Nothing else that he’s discovered, and he’s tried many solutions.

He walks down 5th Avenue, past Central Park, towards the new tower, and smiles playfully at everyone who recognizes him in the crowd. Not as many as most would expect: New Yorkers seem to be occupied with their own affairs, and tourists always have their eyes fixed on something above in this city.

Spring is welcoming. Still pointless, but fills the streets with green leaves and the parks with endless colors, making people’s moods lighter, making them want to go out, do things, be together, breathe the fresh air. It’s the victory of newness and Tony can appreciate that.

His legs feels heavy as he takes slow steps, carefully avoiding bumping into people.

Halfway through his walk, Tony gets a hot dog from a street vendor – all-American tradition in nutshell – and bites off piece by piece, enjoying the strange flavor of processed cheese and ketchup that shouldn’t make sense, but it does, in a comforting way. Some things never change, however silly that is. The continuity feels trustworthy, as if no matter what happened, no matter how wrong things became, it was always there. A flavor. A scent. A sight. A voice, a song. Sometimes that has enough.

 

 

It’s Tony’s consulting hours today and he would appear in his office normally no matter what, he can’t afford stopping his life because of some mood. It would be difficult, but he’d get ready and go out, babble and fake his way through the day.

Now it’s almost pleasant. There is a boring note to all the paperwork waiting for him, and an annoying one to people who have nothing interesting to say, wasting his time, but there are two promising meetings before lunchtime already. Then Tony meets up with two heads of departments and they grab some food from the cafeteria and discuss international economy and newest articles from _International Journal of Robotics Research_. Tony only skimmed through it but his memory is as perfect as always, so the conversation is easy and flowing, and an epitome of what one would call geeky. Which is a pleasure.

‘Well, gotta run now, I’ll see you in development meeting next week,’ Tony says standing up and glancing at his watch. He has a meeting in ten and he still needs a quick detour to the men’s rooms.

He uses his private bathroom. Not something he would normally be picky about - one can have interesting encounters in the public one, Tony can attest to that – but he _wants_ to check on his arm. Just a quick check. Brush of bandage against his skin, giving him a shiver.

‘Good afternoon, Doctor O’Neil. Come on in,’ he says a few minutes later when his secretary opens the door for the man. ‘Would you like something to drink? A coffee for me, please, Sandy. The usual. And for the gentleman –’

‘Double espresso, one brown sugar. Thank you,’ O’Neil finishes, walking across the room to shake Tony’s hand.

Same old.

 

 

Tony wakes up to rain and semi-darkness of the world covered with clouds. It’s a cozy feeling, the blue mist outside bedroom’s window, instead of the usual view. It has a feel of an autumn day, an October morning bearing a promise of endless fuzzy rain and surprisingly warm air to breathe.

He spends half of the day in workshop, finishing odd bits and pieces of projects to feel the satisfaction of seeing them transfer from _pending_ to _complete_. Then there is an Avengers meeting at S.H.I.E.L.D. and Tony plays the team guy as much as he can, but he doesn’t push it. He leaves when the training ends, eager to go back to his work.

 _Enjoy it while it lasts_.

He does enjoy the evening, only half of each he spend in the workshop; the other half he goes out to a birthday party of Timothy, one of S.I. major shareholders. It’s as dull as any social engagement but Tony finds entertainment in the person of Tim’s daughter, Felice, a very sharp young lady, happy to share mean gossip after having some drinks.

Tony himself nurses a few scotches throughout the night, enjoying the soft buzz they give him, making his smiles more effortless and his words soother and just a bit rounded.

He gives Felice a goodbye kiss in the cheek just before sunrise, when it’s most fashionable to leave, and walks out in his perfect midnight blue suit into the dawn-bound New York.

 

 

In the morning – almost an afternoon, just by half an hour – Tony gets out of bed and goes straight to the kitchen, a cup of hot coffee waiting for his customizations. There’s a remote headache somewhere at the back of his head and he knows it’s only partially hangover.

He adds a drop of cream and drowns the cup almost too quickly, hot liquid burning in his throat pleasantly.

It takes fifteen minutes for the caffeine to kick in, lifting some weight from his heavy limbs, allowing his to straighten his back and deal with it. He stops blinking so much and enjoys the surge of energy, stretching his arms above his head.

‘Thanks, J.’

‘I know how important your coffee is to you, sir,’ JARVIS replies smugly. Tony knows there will be another cup waiting for him after his shower.

How water makes his arm swell up a bit, and itch. Familiar enough. Tony inspect the lines as he trims his goatee: some of them are already disappearing.

Before he gets his hands dirty with oil and grease, he puts on training clothes and works out for half an hour, treats himself to another shower, and ventures out for a shirt flight. Apart from his duties to Avengers, Iron Man has duties to the public, too: there are always some people sitting in the nearby cafés, waiting for the flying man to shoot out into the sky. It’s been several days since he last let himself be spotted.

Time for a show.

Just like when he was a young boy in a fancy boarding school, he dances. Only now he’s in the air, for a while, practicing sharp turns, drops, twirls worthy of a ballerina, waving at the lucky ones who are watching him through binoculars. There is something graceful and rewarding to the performance, to being appreciated on an almost artistic level, and Tony finds it hard to give himself an order to go back.

He grabs some snacks before burying himself with blueprints and holograms.

In the evening, he takes a break to videochat with Pepper and eat dinner, both much to her satisfaction. He makes sure to put on a long-sleeved shirt before JARVIS turns the camera on; it’s not suspicious at all. Some experiments require it to be cold in the ‘shop.

Pepper doesn’t know. She suspects something, Tony is aware, but she doesn’t know.

_Not yet._

_You can’t hide forever. You can’t fool yourself forever._

Pepper  knows he is _moody_ (or eccentric or a bit of a hermit sometimes, whichever suits him best), it’s always been taken for granted. He acts well enough. But when he’s in a good place, she seems to unconsciously know it, so the conversation is rather light-hearted and flows easily, between bites: dinner for him, breakfast for her. 

 

 

He wakes up.

It’s Sunday, the advantage of Sunday he doesn’t _have to_ work. He is glad: the world seems to vast, too random to be safe.

His head is fuzzy.

His hand unconsciously strokes his other arm, tracing the almost-gone faint lines: enough time has passed for them to disappear. He can still make them out because he knows they are there.

The world seems too big.

He wraps himself with a silk dressing gown and walks to the kitchen. JARVIS makes coffee, he drinks it slowly, sitting on a high bar chair, in a strange position.

His chest aches all over.

It takes him a long while to move and take some painkillers. He hesitates because the ache is something to focus on, almost like lines. Imposed, not self-made, but still part of him. The reactor aching means he can still feel: basic reassurance. Psychologists say it’s good. They also say making yourself suffer in purpose is wrong.

Too bad it’s the same thing for him.

JARVIS makes him some more coffee. He wanders to the workshop with an almost-burning mug in hand. Works until five.

Shower. Pre-prepared outfit. The fabric feels all wrong around his body, thick and uncomfortable.

Car. Twenty minutes and he’s there. Someone opens the restaurant door for him and leads him to the table.

Don’t grin – a snazzy smile. They smile back.

‘Mister Stark.’

_Don’t look in the mirror._

‘Mister Juan, Mister Penn.’

They sit, chat, eat. Smile. Dishonestly – that’s always granted. He doesn’t have to fake his way that much because everything about those meetings is fake anyway.

They agree on two contracts. An official meeting next week.

Shake hands.

He gets into the car, slumps in the back chair and stares at night-clad city without really seeing it. Just a blur of lights.

It makes his head hurts worse.

He stays in workshop until he’s too tired to see properly. He isn’t making much progress but it’s comforting to be there, and it’s focusing on something and he needs that. Trying. They should be proud.

 

 

He wakes up.

His eyelids are heavy.

 

 

He wakes up.

Takes a shower. Pepper is waiting for him in the penthouse, finally back.

‘Hey, Tony. Careful not to drop water on that rug, it cost far too much for that.’

Her words make sense. He smiles sheepishly, honestly.

‘Hey, Pep.’

He adjusts the towel he’s wrapped with and steps forward onto the marble because he’s dripping. Cold. He’s all cold.

‘How about you quickly dry yourself and put on some clothes?’

‘Sure.’

Her voice is soft and patient, without patronizing, he realizes standing naked in front of the closet. He knows she suspects something is wrong with him, she has for a long time. But she’s an angel enough to give him the right to speak or remain silent.

Jeans. Band t-shirt. Comfort clothes.

‘You’re perfection, Miss Potts.’

There is a steaming mug of coffee and some eggs on toast waiting.

‘I’m more than that, Mister Stark.’

They laugh.

The food doesn’t taste of anything, cardboard in his mouth, but he chews anyway.

Not sure why he cares to act.

‘You’ve lost some weight.’

‘Mhm.’

How can you not when food is insipid and painful to swallow. At least hunger feels like something, compared to nothingness. It’s such an easy trick.

‘Tony.’

‘Hm?’

‘We’ve talked about that.’

‘Have we?’

He doesn’t remember. Sometimes it’s hard to remember non-important things like that – he’s pretty sure they haven’t talked about _that_ – oh.

‘I got caught up in work and superhero things. Y’know. Usual.’

For half a second he thought she meant how he can’t taste food, sometimes. Or anything else. Silly.

‘Well, you do what you want, but you’re an adult and you should be know better. Your decision though.’

He nods. They both drink their coffees. His is bitter in a strange, absent way.

‘Missed you.’

She raises an eyebrow. Stands up.

‘Have you?’

He shrugs and invites her into a hug. Her arms feel too hot all over him.

‘See you in the office later.’

 

 

His mind is a little bit lighter, his chest hurts less, his head is cleared. Not enough, but any step in that direction is to be cherished. Long-practiced lesson.

For Pepper’s sake, he tries to eat. That means he finds an excuse to bury himself with comfort eating for the next few days. It’s not what she means and it’s not healthy, but he seems able to do either of the extremes and nothing in between these days.

He puts on a couple of pounds. It feels like nothing. His body feels too alien anyway.

He works. It’s going well enough.

His team is just a part of the team now, S.H.I.E.L.D. being involved in another _big thing_ so all agents are on the move. He trains with Steve and Bruce, mostly Steve. They barely exchange a word. Seems like Steve needs energy outlet, too, and mock-fighting Iron Man is a good way.

He’s just drifting.

Pepper’s there when she can but she’s busy. Rhodey’s out of country.

When he’s not out schmoozing and waving models off his arms, he sits alone in the penthouse, trying to fall asleep and trying not to sleep, pretty much at the same time.

 

 

Another day.

Another day.

Wake up.

_Don’t look in the mirror._

Help S.H.I.E.L.D. capture some rogue scientist: flying is good. He feels weightless.

As if he didn’t exist.

Wake up.

Another day.

The emptiness is the most exhausting thing, but he’s not succumbing to it, not just yet. He wishes he could curl up in bed and stay there for days and weeks. He knows people do it, sometimes, when things go bad enough. He couldn’t.

In the end, there’s always some things he has to take care of.

Change the world, save the world. Responsibility.

Feels like nothing, but still, his responsibility.

So he wakes up, gets up, showers, stares at his clothes as if they were his enemies.

 _Snap out of it_.

He laughs.

_Don’t look in the mirror._

But today, today he looks, he knows what he will see anyway. Fooling yourself in nice and easy. Can’t be done forever. So: his eyes are dark and tired, as expected, looking dead even to him (so used to it.) Other than that, he looks perfectly normal. Just normal.

People would say: _you don’t look like you’re sick_.

There is a voice at the back of his head saying: _you don’t look like you’re sick_.

He smiles at his reflection, it smiles back brilliantly. Handsomely. Believably. He smiles some more and stares, hoping maybe he could persuade himself everything is fine, or make everything fine. He certainly is trying. It would be so easy, so lovely, to give up, but he won’t.

The day goes as any other day, filled with restlessness and anticipation for – something. Filled with things to fill time so he doesn’t have a moment to think.

At some point, he just stands up and leaves the room, hands shaking with anger and exhaustion, half-finished prototype sitting on the desk.

He puts on the suits and goes perform.

It’s a routine, a sequence he’s practiced, it’s nice, nice, nice.

Nice means nothing.

Flying is boring, even flying is boring.

He finishes his routine, waves at the public, whoever they are, and pretends to head back to tower while engaging invisibility mode. Then he shoots through the sky, uncatchable to eyes.

Only falling down is exhilarating enough.

He falls, almost to the ground. JARVIS shouts at him but he doesn’t really hear the words.

He falls, almost to the ground, again. so close.

JARVIS doesn’t let him do it the third time, he’s been disengaged but he uses the emergency mode. Claims it’s distressing situation.

‘I will fly you home, sir.’

He nods. His heart is beating so fast. So fast it hurts.

‘Sir, I do not want to be forced to tell Miss Potts you have been doing this, or that you need someone… watching over you for the next seventy-two hours.’

‘Not suicidal, J, we’ve talked ‘bout it.’

He mutters. His head is spinning and his hands are tingling with almost-hyperventilation, such a great great feeling, such a _feeling._

‘It just feels so good.’

‘Almost dying.’

‘Feels real.’

JARVIS says nothing more and takes the suit away.

He makes himself a coffee and pretends the adrenaline rush is not an adrenaline rush, that this is how life is.

 

 

He wakes up.

He immediately dreams of flying but he wouldn’t trust himself today.

It takes him an hour to get ready because everything seems wrong and he wastes time on trying to pinpoint what exactly feels wrong.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong._

He talks JARVIS through his week, approving the schedule, over some coffee. Makes an effort to say his words quickly, naturally enough. He feels so heavy. Tired.

Pepper is busy and Rhodey is still away and he needs a human distraction.

He goes to the S.H.I.E.L.D. and locks himself up in Avengers training room, using the fight simulator on the easiest and slowest level. He could do better, he could go crazy, but one, he doesn’t trust himself, and two, that’d be exhausting.

‘Taking it easy, Stark?’

Natasha. Wearing combat outfit.

‘Always good to perfect the basics.’

It’s a smart answer, he knows, and accurate.

She studies him for a long moment and he wonders how long she’s been here.

‘Mind if I join?’

‘Not at all.’

He’s doing a great job; it’s reassuring. No matter how bad he’s feeling, he can still perform on a satisfying level. Good to know: if he couldn’t pull it off, he’d have to make himself resign from the team because it would be so irresponsible putting them in danger because of himself.

When they finish, Natasha seems okay with the results.

He feels dizzy.

In retrospect, he hasn’t eaten anything in a day and it was a two-hour-long intense training.

‘Off.’

JARVIS takes the suit off him: it’s better to breathe unfiltered air and just in case he throws up, or passes out, always easier.

‘You okay?’

He nods, his eyes are ringing, so he throws her a smile and gracefully slides down to sit on the floor, and then lay down.

‘Legs up.’

He does what she says.

‘You silly man.’

She produces water and an energy bar out of nowhere and puts it on the floor next to him.

‘Pepper moans about you being like this sometimes, not eating.’

‘I’ve been.’

‘Yeah, I know, Pepper keeps an eye on you and I keep an eye on Pepper, so you haven’t been eating, then you have, and now you aren’t again. I can spot every tiniest weight change. You’ve lost  couple of pounds.’

‘ _Natasha_.’

She doesn’t say anything more, just stares at him, his legs propped on her shoulder.

He starts feeling well in a short time. Blood to head, always works.

‘Thanks.’

‘Just don’t try to fight me unless you’ve had a sandwich, the next time.’

He smiles, genuinely. She smiles back, happily. He suddenly wonders if she knows: she never wrote anything about some things he did in his report to Fury, but she must have noticed them when noticing was her job.

‘Actually, we both probably could use a sandwich. I know this place nearby, they have –’

‘I’ll go home.’

He didn’t mean to sound so tired but he couldn’t face going out and meeting people. At all. Especially not when there would be photos and the whole shebang, like every time he goes and actually stops somewhere for long enough to be spotted.

Natasha nods.

‘Can I come with you? Could use a break from here.’

He drives them back to the tower, Natasha doesn’t protest or comment. He’s thankful.

They eat mostly in silence, exchanging a few easy sentences of gossip and randomness, and then Natasha asks him a question.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

He’s been prepared for it.

‘Pepper never said she knew. But of course she did.’

‘She said it took her a long time to notice because with everything that you are, everything that you do, depression just blends in and seems impossible.’

The way she says it, he suddenly understands.

‘You two talked, she described it to you, and you made her realize.’

He doesn’t deny the label even though it’s not hundred percent accurate, but it’s not time for technicalities.

‘She said she’d leave the decision to you, tell or no. It’s been going on forever, hasn’t it?’

He raises an eyebrow over his coffee.

‘You’re well-adjusted.’

He laughs. She joins in.

And then she asks him.

‘Can I hug you?’

He nods, unintentionally, and she wraps her arms around him; it feels like nothing but a tingle to his disconnected body, a bit of an additional weight.

‘It barely feels like anything?’

Whisper is his ear. He can’t say if she’s asking or telling, but he nods again, and she tightens her embrace so much it almost – exactly almost – hurts. Practiced.

_Good one._

Is as obvious as anything that she knows all about _this_ , and he briefly wonders why, before he laughs again. She lets him go and laughs, too, and they’re honestly quite ridiculous. But it’s – nice.

Tony smiles.

Natasha gives him a look.

‘Maybe you could come over more often?’

‘Maybe I should drag Clint with me. If that’s okay with you. He’s really fun to be around.’

She pauses.

‘Sometimes.’

 _Sometimes she’s the one hugging him_ , his mind supplies. He wants to talk back but doesn’t because other human is present, even if the human would get it, maybe, maybe. How random.

The way she says it, of course he gets _it_.

‘Bring him over.’

He pauses, too.

(He’s seen her files and he’s noticed some signs, some marks, that he never wanted to put together, but now he does. So. And her eyes – ah.)

‘We could have our superhero version of almost-suicide club?’

She laughs.

They laugh.

She nods, just oh-so-slightly, and then she’s gone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated!
> 
> *Please forgive me any typos etc., my better version was lost when my laptop decided to stop working. I mean, I knew these things happen to people, but it happening to me was unexpected and it made me sad. I so need to be cheered up;)


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